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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/22645606">Limelight</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/spacehippie/pseuds/spacehippie'>spacehippie</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>No Fandom</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>1920s, Gen, Murder Mystery, Mystery, Original Character(s)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-02-10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-06-29</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-04-28 12:48:10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>3</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>4,172</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/22645606</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/spacehippie/pseuds/spacehippie</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Overture</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>OCTOBER 3, 1925</p><p>Theater Mystique had a regal exterior. The main entrance was flanked by tall marble columns that supported complex frieze patterns beneath a roof that was gilded with gold. A crowd of a few hundred people were slowly filtering into the theater, patiently wandering from the streets into their red velvet seats. Men in suits or suspenders. Women in long dresses or fur-trimmed cloaks. The most common colors were black and red, but there were occasional flashes of bright green or brilliant white, undulating to create a sea of excited theatergoers. All were surrounded by a haze of cigarette smoke and a collective murmuring of excitement.</p><p>Oberon was not his real name. The reason for using a stage name was a matter of some debate among his fans, but many generally came to one of two conclusions - One, he may have been a fan of Shakespeare. Or two, perhaps he simply wanted to be a mystery. After all, who was Charlie Chaplin? Simple - Charlie Chaplin was Charlie Chaplin. Who was Oberon? Ah, but there’s the rub. Surely, they would think, Oberon was not Oberon. Oberon was someone else.</p><p>He was a magician. His work impressively managed the difficult balance of being at the same time entertaining and cerebral - audiences would find themselves at many points in the night enjoying the spectacle of color and wonder, and at other times they would find themselves entirely agog, and the rest of the time was spent deep in thought as to how such things could be done.</p><p>He was also known to be particularly punctual. He performed every Saturday beginning at seven, sharp, and on Sunday he would perform a matinee at two. So, those in the audience with pocket watches were anxiously checking the time, watching the hour hand tick closer and closer to seven and watching the minute hand tick closer and closer to twelve. The excited murmuring had been crescendoing slowly - while entering the building, conversations had been at a muted whisper. By now, people were bubbling up with excitement. Strangers gossipped with one another breathlessly about what wonders they had heard the show contained, and compared how long they had reserved their tickets in advance. Six months? Eight? Many had difficulty remembering a time they had not been waiting to see Oberon perform.</p><p>When the house lights dimmed, the chatter stopped immediately. It was uncanny to hear the echoes of conversation continue to bounce off the spacious, distant walls for a few moments while the source had ceased. Light began to swell at the crimson curtain and breaths hitched in throats. People were on the edge of their seats and the show had not even begun.</p><p>The curtain parted. A brilliant spotlight painted he stage in light, but no one stood in place. Watches, by now safely tucked away in pockets and purses, ticked to seven o’clock on the dot - yet no Oberon stood center stage. No Oberon began to greet the ladies and gentlemen of New York or thanked them for coming. </p><p>At one minute past the hour Oberon arrived, in an unexpected way - by falling. A blood-curdling shriek directed those who had stopped paying attention to the stage to look to it once more. A limp body, strung at the end of a long rope, plummeted down from the catwalk and stopped abruptly a few feet above the stage. The resulting sound was one that a few in the audience recognized - a neck breaking under the ministrations of a noose. </p><p>The room was suddenly havoc. People clambered over each other and tried to run in all directions. Some fainted, and few rushed to the stage to try to help the magician down. The spotlight operator quickly panned away from the disturbing sight and the house lights were brought back to full shortly after. The first of the police arrived in minutes to see a body, swinging slowly and serenely in the air.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>South of Central Park, Inspector Varnum was attending a party that was so luxurious he could scarcely believe it. He was quite surprised to realize that he was smiling as he looked out at the partygoers, and the waiters carrying hors d’oeuvres about on silver platters. He was surprised he was smiling because he wondered why on Earth he’d been invited.</p><p>Phillip Varnum was a man in his mid-thirties, standing six feet tall and wearing a white shirt with blue suspenders, slacks, and a bow tie to match. He had a long face, with a grizzled square jaw and sullen, smooth-shaven cheeks beneath a well-styled mat of corn yellow hair. He wandered slowly through the crowd, reaching for a drink from the platter of a passing waiter and sipping eagerly. He scanned faces quickly with his eyes, looking for the host - or, at the very least, someone he recognized.</p><p>“Phil! Just the man I wanted to see.” A jovial voice came from behind, and then Varnum felt a hand clap hard against his shoulder. He turned to see a friend. Will. He was exactly the sort to get invited to this kind of party. Will was an out-of-work actor who once enjoyed moderate success. He managed to find connections with the rich and well-to-do and get along with them splendidly, despite not being one of them himself.</p><p>“Now, be honest. What do you think of the place?” Will laughed, a wide smile painted across his face. Varnum took a moment to look around again - his eyes passed a golden chandelier overhead, at least a dozen feet in diameter and dripping with jewels of astonishing and vibrant color. Wandering through the dense crowd were entertainers of all kinds - jugglers and acrobats and contortionists, dressed garishly to catch the eye. The jazz band at the front of the room were performing on a grand stage that looked to have been erected for this particular event, the beautiful noises wafting over everyone in attendance.</p><p>“Gorgeous… ” Varnum offered in the middle of another sip from his drink, sounding somewhat skeptical. “Will, I’m gonna be straight - do you know why I was invited?”</p><p>Will scoffed loudly at this. “The hell does it matter? There’s good food, good music, and excellent women. You gonna look a gift horse in the mouth?”</p><p>Well, no, he wasn’t. Just like everyone else here, Varnum was eager to get on the sauce and forget his worries for a night. “I’ll enjoy myself, but it’s awful strange. I’ve only met Alexandre once or twice, and that was a long time ago.” He continued contemplatively. And then a pause, and a hint of an idea, accompanied by a shrug. “…Maybe he wants a favor.”</p><p>Will laughed at this again. “If Alexandre needs a favor I’ll eat my hat. Do you know how rich this guy is? Let me show you around, come on.”</p><p>Will gripped Varnum’s wrist and started to pull him through the crowd. Alexandre duPont’s wealth had seemed impressive to begin with, but as he was toured around the party Varnum began to think his wealth was in fact <em>impossible</em>. The mansion’s many halls and rooms sprawled out for what felt like miles, and there didn’t seem to be anyplace people weren’t allowed to wander - no matter what strange nooks and crannies of the estate the two found themselves in, there were always one or two others minding their own business there.</p><p>First, Will showed Varnum the music room. It had been modeled to Alexandre’s specifications - a wide, vaulted ceiling for reflecting sound was painted a dazzling midnight blue and spattered with dots of white to mimic the night sky. Will commented, slightly tipsily, that the harpsichord had been purchased specially from Vienna - it had been played by Mozart himself. Then, it was off to the private cinema - a theater capable of seating dozens of people, showing the film ‘Intolerance’ to a thin collection of partygoers who were engrossed in the plot.</p><p>“How big’s your ice box at home?” Will urged excitedly, continuing to usher Varnum down the hallways of the mansion like a puppy tugging at his owner’s leash. By now, the good Inspector had seen a bowling alley, a games room with ten pool tables, a greenhouse with varieties of animal and plant life that rivaled the Amazon rainforest in complexity and beauty, and three roomfuls of priceless artworks.</p><p>“Whatever does that have to do with any of this?” Varnum asked, impatient to be brought to the next wonder this mansion had in store.</p><p>“Just - go on!” Will urged. Varnum awkwardly gestured in front of himself, with his hands, holding them about two feet apart. And then again, but in the other direction. Will nodded smugly at this. “Well, guess how big Alexandre’s is?”</p><p>Will shouldered open a door. It gave slowly - much heavier than the other doors in the house. Varnum was overcome with a blast of chilly air as the room was bared to him - it wasn’t quite a room, though. It was… An ice box. The size of a gymnasium, it boasted dazzling ice sculptures of incredible detail and precision. They depicted swans, cherubs, flowers, angels, and more. As Varnum trudged in to look at them all with wonder, he barely noticed the cold, or the other visitors who similarly milled about and commented on the works as though they were in a museum. Many shivered and commented that they wished they’d not left their jackets at the door.</p><p>“It’s astonishing.” Varnum managed, leaning in closely to one that was fashioned to look like a tall ship of the 18th century. Even the ropes of the rigging were made of ice, thin rods that looked so delicate and thin he feared a stray breath would melt them - along with the sheets of clear frost, paper-thin, that comprised the sails.</p><p>Varnum was surprised when a voice came from behind again - he started, flinching but careful not to fall into any of the fragile artwork. “I thought you would appreciate this room more than others, Inspector. You were always one for the finer arts than many of my other guests.”</p><p>Will was the first to reach out a hand. “Alexandre! Lovely to see you again.” He said gaily. “I hope you’ll forgive me giving a tour of your place.”</p><p>Alexandre duPont was short and broad - heavyset and in a jet black suit with a crimson shirt beneath and a handsome cravat to match. “And you, William.” He returned, only half as enthusiastic as the one he shook hands with.</p><p>Varnum interrupted. “You must forgive me, Alexandre, but I have to ask immediately. Why on Earth have you—“</p><p>“Come to be so spectacularly wealthy?” He interrupted boldly, tugging his mustache and looking very pleased with himself. “Well Varnum, while <em>you</em> retired from prestidigitation to turn to the law, I continued and turned myself into one of the best magical performers in the United States.”</p><p>Varnum hesitated. He'd known all that - he had been about to ask, rather, 'Why on earth have you invited me?'.</p><p>“One of.” Will noted, drunkenly raising a finger. “Would you say you’re as good as Oberon?”</p><p>Alexandre bristled only slightly, lacing his fingers and forcing a diplomatic smile. “I suppose you’ll have to ask him.” He grunted. And then, abruptly changing the subject - presumably with a vested interest in getting the drunkard away from the fragile works of ice in this room - he turned. “Let’s share drinks in the West sitting-room and catch up together, yes?”</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p class="p1">The mansion was of such spectacular dimension that walking from the massive ice-box art showcase to the sitting-room took an entire three minutes. This didn’t include the difficulty of weaving through a crowd, because at the very sight of Alexandre’s face guests would part like the red sea and allow him to pass.</p><p class="p1">So, Varnum found himself seated next to his actor friend, awkwardly knocking his knuckles together as Alexandre poured out drinks.</p><p class="p1">“A nice gin won’t be a problem, will it, ‘Officer’?” Alexandre poked lightly, bumping up his eyebrows. Varnum tapped the side of his nose.</p><p class="p1">"Just one? Your secret is safe." He said, holding the glass gingerly in one hand and tapping the side of his nose with another.</p><p class="p1">And so, the three conversed and caught up with each other. The relation between Varnum and Alexandre bore some explaining to Will, who sat patiently as they recounted their 'good old days'. Twenty years prior, Varnum had been a magician on the vaudeville circuit - though he never enjoyed much success. On two occasions he had been in the same show as Alexandre, at the time only a rising star - rather than the unparalleled phenomenon he was considered to be today. Though they'd gotten along splendidly, they'd drifted apart fairly rapidly. This begged the question that was so urgently on Varnum's mind.</p><p class="p1">"And that brings us to today, Alexandre. Why did you invite me? You barely know me."</p><p class="p1">DuPont laughed - the kind of jovial belly laugh one could imagine to come from Santa Claus. "Phil, have you seen how many thousands guests are here to see me? Do you imagine me to know <em>every one of them</em> intimately?"</p><p class="p1">This left the detective quiet, a bit unable to articulate himself. He had meant to continue - that wasn't a satisfactory explanation, to him. Everyone else here was famous, to some degree. Actors, politicians, foreign royalty, singers - they were the type here. He was not. He stood out, and it discomforted him. Varnum was shy - one reason his time in vaudeville had not had much success. He liked to blend in - and he noticed how much he stood out here.</p><p class="p1">"I didn't know you used to be on vaudeville actually, Phil." Will said, leaning back on his settee and crossing his arms smugly. Varnum didn't much like to be called Phil or Phillip - he preferred Varnum, but very few paid attention to this preference as consistently as he'd like.  "Were you any good?"</p><p class="p1">"Well, why not have the fellow show you?" Alexandre perked up, gesturing to the table. "Varnum, you must remember <em>something </em>you could show us. I always welcome the variety of another performer's ideas."</p><p class="p1">He took some convincing - both actor and magician poking at him with their words - until he relented. He rolled his eyes affably and quaffed the rest of his drink, turning it down and covering it tightly with cocktail napkin. The mouth of the glass was open as before, but the napkin obscured its contents. He plucked an olive from a bowl set out on the table and tossed it from hand to hand. </p><p class="p1">"Alright, it's nothing terribly impressive, but it's what I remember." Varnum shrugged. He passed the olive quickly from one hand into the other, and then slid it under the upturned glass. "Will, are you quite sure you know where the olive is?"</p><p class="p1">The actor had leaned in eagerly at this point, brown eyes the size of dinner plates eager to catch him out on his trickery. "Yes. Right under the cup."</p><p class="p1">Varnum smiled. "But if I reach into my pocket and pull out my watch - " He did just that, bringing out the silver thing at the end of its chain, "And swing it over the glass, time begins to run backward."</p><p class="p1">Will was watching intently. Furrowing his brow, desperate to see the foul move near the glass, but none came. He pursed his lips together, eyes focused entirely in place. </p><p class="p1">"Time begins to run backward," Varnum continued, "To before I put the olive under the glass." And at that he lifted the glass - the olive was no longer there. Will got to inspect all the objects - he looked carefully at the pocket watch, seeing it tick to 7:30. He looked at the glass and the cocktail napkin and scrutinized Varnum's hands - no sign of an olive, anywhere.</p><p class="p1">"Absolutely smashing!" Will beamed, grinning widely and flashing his gaze to Alexandre. "Do you know how...?"</p><p class="p1">Alexandre had stopped watching. His gaze was directed out the window and at the lawn below, concern in his voice. "Inspector, I do believe there are visitors for you." He said, watching a police-car come up the driveway. Of course, dozens of tipsy visitors ran for it - but as two officers strode into the party, they didn't seem to take any heed of the alcohol being served.</p><p class="p1">Varnum had joined Alexandre at the window, and cursed under his breath before leaving the room and stalking quickly from the room, down the stairs, and to the entrance. He recognized the officers - Officer Kelly, and Officer Hargrave. They looked pleased to see him. Varnum knew what this was to be. In his time on the force, he'd come to think of this moment as 'the summoning'. </p><p class="p1">"Inspector Varnum, you're needed at the Mystique Theater." Hargrave started. Varnum opened his mouth to ask a question - Kelly's next words came before he could speak, and as an enormous surprise.</p><p class="p1">"Oberon is dead."</p><p class="p1"> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Chapter unfinished, but some progress is better than no progress</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Varnum knew, as he approached the tall doors of the theater, that he was soon to become acquainted with a recently-dead body. This did not so much discomfort him. What <em>did </em>discomfort him was the throng of reporters swarming about the entrance, which he would have to wade through in order to get his job done.</p><p> </p><p>"Blast." He muttered under his breath, pushing forward. He held his hand to the level of his eye to shield from the unbearable brightness of those camera flashes, each one coming to the verge of blinding him. "Out of the way!" He shouted, attempting a commanding tone of voice. In response, he was only given a huge barrage of questions as he waded into the crowd. They surrounded him. They suffocated him. They were parasites, eager to turn Oberon's death into a boon for their careers. "Let me through!"</p><p> </p><p>"Inspector, do you believe foul play was involved?" One asked, managing to find themselves right beside him, carefully pushing through the swarm with him.</p><p> </p><p>"I haven't even seen the damn body yet." He said through gritted teeth.</p><p> </p><p>"Inspector, is it true that Oberon's motivation for suicide was regret at the string of broken hearts he'd left behind these past few years?"</p><p> </p><p>Damn the yellow press. </p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Varnum knelt over the body, lips pushed together into a somber line of disappointment. It had been carefully cut down by other officers, and now lay on the stage in as dignified a position as possible. Varnum quite thought the phrase 'still as the grave' was never apt for a body. Dead bodies were <em>stiller</em> than the grave. The phrase 'still as the grave' always conjured in his mind an actor pretending to be dead - but nothing prepared a person for the uncanny level of motionlessness unique to a body whose soul had truly departed. And yet, Varnum's body was still as warm as life. He had never been next to a body so freshly dead, and he was very discomforted by how warm the body remained. As though Oberon was in a strange and terrifying sleep. He ran a thumb delicately over the performer's cheek, moving the head gently in order to inspect the neck - the rope had dug badly into the skin, leaving long and painful-looking imprints.</p><p> </p><p>"Theater Mystique is ruined." Alexandre said, looking quite anxious as he sat, wide-eyed, in the front row. The first knuckle of his middle finger was being gnawed on by his front teeth as his eyes bulged and darted around to accompany the thoughts that raced through his mind. "The press will ask questions for months, and - and I'll have to cancel all the future productions for this location, and... And..." He shook his head, exasperatedly letting out a sigh and neglecting to finish his list.</p><p> </p><p>"You should go home, Alexandre. I don't need you here." Varnum said, inspecting the thumb he'd brushed against Oberon's face. No stage makeup had rubbed off on it - upon closer examination, it was because there was none present on the body.</p><p> </p><p>"I <em>own</em> this theater, damn it. I've a right to be here." Alexandre snapped, mood swinging wildly to indignation. "Anyway, I didn't push through that crowd of reporters to get in here just so I could leave after only a few minutes."</p><p> </p><p>Varnum was sure that Alexandre did <em>not</em> in fact have any right to be here while he was doing his investigation, but he didn't think it worthwhile to waste his time arguing. And anyway...</p><p> </p><p>"Alexandre, you knew Oberon. At least, he rented your theater. Or however you did your business together. Do you know his usual schedule? Where he would have been before he was on stage?" Varnum asked. By now, he had begun inspecting the contents of Oberon's pockets. Decks of cards. Well-hidden, alien-looking devices for secretly retrieving objects from his sleeves and moving objects from one pocket to another. </p><p> </p><p>Alexandre only nodded. His mind was somewhere else. "A suicide in the Theatre Mystique. I'll have to cancel all the future productions for months to come."</p><p> </p><p>"I wouldn't - " Varnum started, and then hesitated, unsure if Alexandre needed to know about his thoughts regarding the investigation. Perhaps... "Alexandre, I don't think you've had a suicide on this property. I'm starting to suspect foul play."</p><p> </p><p>Alexandre's mood swung once again - he bolted from his seat and approached the stage, face flushing with some strange combination of anger and surprise. "What? What on Earth would make you think that?" He fumed under his breath, as though the press could be listening from afar. </p><p> </p><p>"Well, I'm not sure yet. Not in the least." Varnum loosened his collar, tugging at it with a finger and feeling sweat bead at his brow - the stage lights had not been turned off, and they were awfully hot. "But I think it's strange that he's dressed for a performance, with everything prepared in his pockets. And yet, he's not wearing stage makeup. And yet, he's supposedly hung himself."</p><p> </p><p>Alexandre remained enraged by the scandalous idea. He began with a stammer, words coming slowly, and then tumbling out of his fat mouth in rapid succession. "Don't you think... Perhaps he was making some sort of statement?"</p><p> </p><p>Varnum rose from the body, satisfied with his observations - but wary of Alexandre's surprisingly powerful protestations. He heard the paraphrased Shakespeare in his head - 'Methinks he doth protest too much'. Alexandre probably thought the optics of a <em>suicide </em>on his stage would be better to the press than a <em>murder, </em>and he began to argue the point rapidly at great length.</p><p> </p><p>"Never you mind, Alexandre. I shouldn't have said anything." The detective sighed. Nevertheless, his wheels continued to turn. He raised his hand to the coroner, a frail man who had been waiting a few feet away, telling him simply that there was nothing more to see here.</p><p> </p><p>Oberon's body would be removed. At the funeral, it was displayed to a crowd ten times larger than any he had attracted while he had been alive.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Oberon's dressing room was a queer place altogether. It was surprisingly small - and with all the clutter of posters, magic regalia, costumes, and makeup littered around in a colorful mess there was barely as much walking room within as was afforded to a closet. Varnum laughed aloud upon entering, immediately realizing that a search for worthwhile clues in such a place would be more fruitless than looking for a needle in ten thousand hay stacks. He merely noticed one thing in his cursory inspection - that the clock on the vanity, the only one in the room, had wound completely to a stop.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Back in the lobby, Varnum believed he was just about done taking notes on the area. All that remained was an interrogation of witnesses - of which there were very, very many. They had been gathered into small groups of six, each being handled by an individual officer of the law. Bustling between them, making various and breathless comments about refunds, and compensation, and 'so-many-sincere-apologies-on-behalf-of-DuPont-Entertainment', was Alexandre. He looked exhausted as Varnum flagged him down.</p><p> </p><p>"Is there someone intimately aware with the usual locations of the staff? Is it you?" Varnum asked, pencil at the ready, too engrossed in his investigation to notice or care about Alexandre's efforts.</p><p> </p><p>"No, I - I mean, yes -" He responded shortly, in between comments to a collection of valued customers and ticketholders. "The stage manager, Mrs. Laplace. She's, uh..." He looked for a fleeting moment and, not seeing her, gave up almost as soon as he had started. "Somewhere, Varnum." And then, suddenly turning away -  "Why, of course, Mr. Johnson, I can <em>personally assure you</em> that your season pass will be extended with an additional, complimentary show. N-no, madam, financial compensation for distress, I - I would like to speak with my lawyers - "</p><p> </p><p>Varnum turned away. Damn, there were still so many people here. It had taken him enough preparation to go to Alexandre's party - but then the press? And now, more witnesses to a situation than any he'd ever investigated before? He piped up, speaking over the myriad conversations, calling out as loudly as he could for a Mrs. Laplace.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I consider this to be a first draft. Expect edits and changes to occur in addition to updates.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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